BitterSweet Martyrdom
by Morning Dew
Summary: One Shot! Spot was always apathetic; his cousin a practical zealot. When conflicting opinions clash in the borough, will Spot denounce his reputation, or lose all he holds dear to learn a valuable lesson?


~*Bittersweet Martyrdom*~  
  
-When I made up my mind, and my heart along with that, to live not for myself but yet for God, somebody said, "Do you know what you are getting yourself into?-  
  
An hour before dawn, when the skies have yet to be etched with the picturesque markings of a rising, radiant sun, I woke up from my lacking slumber and laid upon my bunk, gazing up at the mildew patches on the ceiling above me. One is dampened to the point of decay, most probably from last night's beast of a storm, and I knew that soon it would tear the wood and allow the water in. But I had plenty of time to fetch myself a tin bucket which would later serve as the raindrop-catcher, so to speak, and so I wasn't too worried over the dilemma.  
  
My body stirred as it began to wake up as well and I brought a hand to my eyes to wipe away the morning grogginess that threatened to consume me. Rising from one's bed is undoubtedly the hardest part of facing a new day. Although, in the Brooklyn Newsboy's Lodging House, there isn't much of a bed to wake up from. Our bunks are decades old, the box springs busted to near oblivion in most cases. Some of us are fortunate to sleep with blankets if we come home from selling papers early enough to choose our pick from our lodge keeper's closet of linen and such.  
  
Linen. I laughed at the idea. The covers we were dealt in this hellhole of a place more closely resembled rags seeing the last of their days. But I don't complain. After all, my situation could be worse, right? I could be sleeping on the streets with only a cardboard slab protecting my head from the bitter weather of January. I could be in the House of Refuge, licking the slime off the warden's boots, slaving away as if I were born to clean after the muckety-mucks.  
  
No thank you. Life as a headline-hawker, famous striker, and notorious leader of the Brooklyn newsboys suits me just well. I may be sharing the second story of my lodging house with a litter of rats instead of with high-ranking politicians, but when I see the shallowness of the aristocracy, I'm thankful to be in my humble position.  
  
In any case, having sold with amazing results this week, I wasn't really in the mood to head off to the distribution center for my morning distributions. I had enough money for Mr. Scaparti's five-cent lodge, for a reasonable lunch at Tibby's later on when I visited Jack Kelly in Manhattan, and a nice lump of cash for the poker games my borough was hosting tonight for Kelly's brood, Queens, and the Bronx. Staten Island was currently undergoing a change in leadership so social events were completely out of the picture for them these past weeks.  
  
As leader, however, the duty to wake up my boys before they slept in and missed a chance to make a scanty living still lay upon my shoulders. I squinted my eyes, adjusting them to the dimness in my room and stretched out my body while still in my resting position. Finally deciding I would conquer my current languid attitude, I swung my legs over the side of my top bunk and jumped the five feet to the floor with a gentle thud.  
  
My cousin, Runner, didn't even do so much as wince at the sound. The kid slept like a rock. I neared his bed in a few steps and watched him sleep, his breathing steady and soft, his face showing nothing of the adventures his dream world was showing him. His bright copper-tone hair was hardly mangy but instead fell in neat strands over his forehead, as if he had combed it thoroughly every hour of the night. His eyelids were closed, their lashes long, dark, and thick. Giving evidence to the youth he still maintained, he had the facial structure of a woodland elf, with high cheekbones and thin lips, and I was filled with a sudden obligation to protect him from this ruffian life he had undertaken by choice.  
  
I brushed the matter aside within seconds; it was his life and I wasn't his father to dictate what he would and couldn't do in his own life. I smacked his cheek lightly, yet the action didn't faze him. So I repeated the favor twice more, the last blow being rather hard and sounding across the room like a quick whiplash. He awoke with a start, gasping for breath, his emerald green eyes sparking with a dazzling hue.  
  
He righted himself up onto his elbows and took a moment to calm himself. When he finally caught sight of me leaning against the door with arms crossed and a smartass smirk adorning my face, he rolled his eyes and muttered something about getting a bunk in the main room from now on. He threw his covers off his body and rose to his feet, stretching his arms as high as they could go in the process.  
  
"Ya aint gunna grow no more, shorty," I called out to him, sneering.  
  
He cracked his knuckles and shrugged. "Yea, you being vertically challenged and all yourself, how could I forget? Ya remind me every day!" His lack of the rough Brooklyn accent didn't even dawn on me sometimes, but it had this particular morning for whatever reasons. I opened the door and smacked the back of his head as he walked out and headed to the washroom.  
  
Soon after, the entire lodging house was engulfed with a cacophony of yelling, arguing, singing, and bragging about whoever had taken whoever to bed last night. Quite frankly, I often wish my boys would simply shut their traps for once and go about their business in peace and quiet. It can get pretty annoying listening to all the rubbish that comes out of their mouth, though I'll admit bragging rights are fine with me, as I usually am the one putting them into practice, what with all my one-night stands and such.  
  
Moving along, Runner somehow managed to be the first one in line at the distribution center every morning and it drove me mad. Sure, he was my second-in-command and named heir to the Brooklyn dynasty once I retired from leadership in a year or so, but it seemed as if he was extremely enthusiastic about his forthcoming position sometimes. A zealot at heart. Then again, if I were to speak of Runner's passion...I'd be a fool to leave out his love for God.  
  
That's right. The younger cousin of New York's most respected newsie, of the infamous womanizer who's known to use girls only for pleasure, of the best slingshot handler this side of the bridge, of the toughest and quickest fighter in any combat, of the cold-hearted apathetic Brooklyn leader who cares nothing for anyone...well, his younger cousin simply loved God. It's hardcore irony in certain respects, for it's the one thing that distinguished us the most. Not to say I'm a mainstream atheist or skeptic or a cynic who despises the very essence of life...but I'm more on the uncertain side myself. A rightful agnostic, I suppose. I like to think someone's out there watching me, but the notion is radical on occasion.  
  
But Runner was a modern-day 'hero of the faith'. Unlike the hypocrites who populated the sanctuaries of ageless cathedrals, he practiced what he preached and heartily apologized when he failed to live up to his beliefs. He was always striving to do the right thing, and to deal the wisdom he'd obtained in his sixteen years of life. And he wasn't ashamed of anything either. Acting contrary to those craven believers who lack a backbone, he wasn't afraid to speak up against someone degrading another person or who held an opinion that differed from his own. Best of all, he didn't shove his beliefs down others' throats...he respected them whether they accepted them or not, and never forced or went on some biblical rampage.  
  
I had to admire him most definitely. He was strong and pure- hearted; a trustworthy friend who would sooner take a bullet for you than cheese it for fear of being caught by the bulls. But not everyone held Runner in such high regard as I did. As a matter of fact, he was more often than not ridiculed and mocked for his beliefs. The names were numerous. 'Bible-hugger', to which he would always reply, "would you rather I hug a gun to myself and pull the trigger?" There was also 'Jesus-freak' and more profane slurs such as 'Bishop-f*cker' (and yet, for the record, Runner was as straight as a teenage boy could be).  
  
But he sauntered about New York as if wearing an invisible suit of armor, for the insults never penetrated his spirit. He claimed he couldn't care less what others said about him. Their scorn wouldn't define him as a person; he wouldn't let it. He'd go on living as righteously as he could and wouldn't give a second thought to perhaps forsaking his lifestyle to fit in with the masses. I had told him on countless occasions that he was walking a fine line with this God business of his, but he'd only tell me that in the long run, it'd be worth it.  
  
"Seriously, Runnah," I said to him one day when he was thumbing through the pages of his leather-bound crinkly-paged bible while I sat on my bed inspecting a hole in one of the boots I had owned back then, "d'ya know what ya gettin' yaself into? Shoah the boys who know ya well can attest to the fact that youse aint a hoity-toity like the others think, but one of these days...I don't know. I just feel like ya gettin' in too deep. Ya startin' to step on people's toes."  
  
He didn't even look up from his book when answering me. "I'm not stepping on anyone's toes, Spot. I only speak my mind when I think I should. I mean...sorry, but my faith isn't a spectator sport. I have to go out there and find people who're aching for something to believe in. If I don't, who will? And if some hardheaded scabs who like to make cracks on believers scare me away from that duty, what does that say about me?"  
  
-They say that anger is just love disappointed. They say that love is just a state of mind. But all this fighting over who is anointed, Oh, how can people be so blind? Oh, they tell me there's a place over yonder, cool water running through the burning sand. Until we learn to love one another, we will never reach the Promised Land.-  
  
Well, Runner was right. The opinions of other newsies was starting to rub off on me, was starting to blind me from the person I truly knew my cousin to be. Perhaps I was embarrassed sometimes to be related to him, or maybe I felt as if his lifestyle threatened my reputation. In either respect, where he was blossoming with courage, I was lacking.  
  
I never had the guts to stand up and defend him at the card games when some goon threw him against a wall and flat out hissed "your faith aint gunna let ya win this round, snot-face. Spades is for the real men." And I never could bring myself to tell off the Harlem newsies at borough meetings when they taunted Runner for opening the discussion with a prayer. When he was getting soaked in Brooklyn by some rotten bastard who claimed it was all in justice, I only watched on, knowing full well the brawl had been fueled by Runner's refusal to deny his God. He was a saint...a martyr. And I was the cowering fool nailing him to his rightful cross.  
  
But he never took it out on me. Maybe he understood how hard it was for me to simply drop everything and walk the 'straight and narrow'. I remember him once saying to me, "all ya hold dear now...your reputation, girls, and fame...one day, it won't mean anything to you. One day, you're going to come to realize that there are far better things to live for." And so in that instance, he was assuring me. Assuring my conscious, my heart, and my soul. He wasn't going to lead me like a child down the walkways of Fate, for he knew I would one day have to choose a path to traverse myself. He was giving me ample time to make that decision, and was respecting me all the while.  
  
I'll never know how Runner was able to endure it all. The insults, the fights, the feeling of being loathed by almost everyone merely because of the One you have faith in. Sometimes, the newsies would ignore him, as if he wasn't even there. Sometimes, they'd spit at his feet or shove him here and there. One day at Irving Hall, some Staten Island jackass had pulled a gun on him...for no reason whatsoever! He had made a crude remark about the silver cross Runner wore, and Runner-naturally offended-replied in calm dictation that he rather wear the insignia of a savior than the tattoo markings of a drug lord who probably shed not a tear when his charges were murdered on the job. The Staten Island boy was enraged, and would have shot my cousin right then and there had his leader not intervened.  
  
Things were becoming increasingly hard to deal with.  
  
A feeling of angst and hatred began to engulf our lower class world, and whenever Runner tried to tell the others that there was hope for a brighter tomorrow, they'd only roll their eyes, tell him off with foul profanity, or use physical means to silence him. I didn't particularly like seeing Brooklyn's future leader pushed around as so, but Runner adamantly rejected the idea of retaliation. Holding to his 'turn the other cheek' duties, he would never strike another down in a harmful way.  
  
Knowing this was in no way an attribute the leader of a borough such as mine should have, I made the complicated decision one August night to drop Runner from consideration of acquiring Brooklyn after my leave. He was devastated, but would say nothing to me in regards to the matter. "It wasn't meant to be," was his only stand on the subject.  
  
Then, something I hadn't calculated went terribly wrong. When word got out that Runner had lost the position of vice-leader, the newsies were left to devise their own interpretations. Naturally, they immediately assumed it was because of his Christian roots and thought I had had about enough of his advice and constant mediation. This couldn't have been any further from the truth, but the rumor spread across the state quicker than a plaque wiping out a population and there wasn't anything I could do once it had swayed everyone's train of thought. I believed it was better off it I simply let them believe as so.  
  
How I wish I hadn't been so careless in my reasoning.  
  
-When death like a gypsy comes to steal what I love, I will still look to the heavens, I will still seek your face. But I fear you aren't listening, because there are no words. Just the stillness and the hunger for a faith that assures.-  
  
The rumor spread...and with it came the shattering of my soul. Suddenly, everyone was fired up to despise Runner, for everyone believed I was ready to do the same thing. And as was evident during the 1899 Strike, when Spot Conlon said something, he had quite a number of kids backing him up. Well, apparently, my having said Runner would no longer be leader had been misconstrued into 'I don't want no preaching bastard in charge of Brooklyn. Death to Runner and all his bloody believing friends!' Seriously, that was there mindset!  
  
I could have stopped the rumor any minute; I had the power to do so! I had the power to lend Runner a helping hand and pull him out the abyss of social excommunication. But what was holding me back? My Pride? My want to please everyone but the one person who had taught me the real values in life? Perhaps it was a mixture of the two. Whatever the case, I failed myself, and I failed my very own cousin.  
  
I will never forget the day when one of Runner's few friends, some soft-spoken troublemaker named Mace, barged into the main room of the lodging house panting, his face dirtied with tears, dirt...and blood. As soon as his eyes settled on me, he dashed to my side and fell to his knees in exhaustion, exclaiming in a rush, "he hoit him...real bad...ya gotta help him, I don't know if he's gunna make it...I don't know who the guy was, he was coming outta nowhere, and before I knew it...he's still there, I couldn't carry him...you gotta...you gotta..."  
  
I was on my feet in an instant, bringing Mace to his own and holding his shoulders firmly so that I could calm him and sort out the jumble of words he had spewed. "Kid, slow it down, will ya? Who hurt who, and where?"  
  
"Runner!" he exclaimed, as if I should have known from the start. "Please, Spot. He's hoit real bad...we gotta go now..."  
  
Since I didn't know the whereabouts of the assault, I had to take Mace with me, and this only proved to delay our rescue effort. Even with my hand tightly grasping his arm to stabilize his staggering gait, he was only slowing us down. I was beginning to grow frustrated, but more so, I was tremendously anxious and fretful. I was damn near trembling, my heart pounding within my breast like a caged bird rioting to break free from its confines. Beads of sweat dripped down my face and I'm quite sure I would've passed out from apprehension, but Mace's whimpers kept me in check. I knew I'd have to be strong.  
  
It wasn't long before we finally made it to Morningside Heights, Manhattan. where Runner attends church. On the steps of the cathedral was gathered a fairly large crowd, police authorities lining the outsides like guards with three from their brood at the center of the throng, inspecting something on the ground. I immediately disregarded Mace and ran on my own to the site, my blood rushing to my head, my pulse throbbing. I weaved my way through the people like a needle through fabric and upon finally reaching the center, nearly dispelled my stomach's contents. I screamed. I, fearless leader and almighty king of Brooklyn, screamed until my throat was sore.  
  
Runner lay in a motionless heap before me, drenched in so much blood it had formed a pool under him. Hair that had once been golden and bright was now mangy and dirtied with grains of dirt. His face was more pale than that of a corpse, his lips and eyelids a freakish shade of purple. No longer was he a carefree elf as I had so many times described him. Now he was a statistic, a mere 'body'. I fell to my knees in anguish and shook him desperately, crying out his name over and over. I had by then become oblivious to the sympathetic passersby and the officers who merely shook their head sadly and agreed to let me grieve.  
  
His blood streaked across my hands and arms, but I didn't care. I held him to myself, perhaps hoping the beat of my own heart would somehow revive his. Minutes seemed like hours. I shook him more rigorously, yelling for him to come back. He was too young to die...he couldn't leave me just yet. Who would I have when he was gone? It was in him alone that I had confided; he knew me like no one else. But those eyelids would never open...and I would never look into his pastel green irises again.  
  
I don't know how long I knelt at that spot, sobbing over my cousin's death, but eventually the authorities brought me back to reality and told me Runner's body would have to be taken away. It wasn't until then that I noticed the knife protruding from Runner's abdomen, the source that had brought upon his demise. I wrenched it out of him, feeling miserable even though I knew he no longer could register pain, and recognized the emblem on the dagger's blade in an instant. My cousin's murderer had been the same Staten Island goon from Irving Hall who dealt drugs on the side and had threatened Runner once with the gun.  
  
Fury rushed through me in an inhuman rage. A hate crime; it had been a hate crime. Later, Mace would tell me that while exiting from the cathedral where they had gone simply to sit and chat, he and Runner were confronted by someone who towered over them in size. They had been taking a back alley as a short cut to avoid large crowds, but now had their backs up against a wall and were faced with the armed boy.  
  
Mace would tell me that Runner seemed to be acquainted with their assaulter and that they argued about God for brief moments before the taller seized Runner, threw him up against the brick exterior of a market, and holding a dagger to his neck, said, "Deny ya God and live. No one cares about 'im anyways. Ya goin' through all this trouble for nothing. If 'e does exist, where is 'e now, huh? Give it up, kid! Ya life means more than some fake god!"  
  
"You're wrong," Runner had said, braver than ever. "God is everywhere, and he's going to make something of this. Whether it touches one person, or a population, it's going to be life-changing. Go ahead and kill me. God is with me now and always."  
  
The Staten Island boy had obviously been disappointed. "Then go to ya God," he hissed. He had thrown Runner onto the cobblestone ground where he had repeatedly struck him with blows to the face. Then in one final bout of anger, he stabbed my cousin over and over again...until death had finally come. Pleased with the murder, the bastard had kicked the body and had afterwards run off, Mace all the while hiding behind a trash can and shaking with fear. Sure the boy was definitely gone, Mace had tried to drag Runner's body from the dirty streets back into the church, but when a well-off man began to falsely accuse him of the murder, Mace had run off to Brooklyn to find me.  
  
Mr. Scaparti was kind enough to loan me money to hold a small funeral for Runner. I felt like a worthless street rat while the priest read over some scriptures as I stared at the fresh dirt that covered my cousin's eternal resting place. His tombstone was engraved with the name "Lucas -Runner- Conlon" in script, under which was written, "A Boy After God's Own Heart". I didn't cry at the funeral, but as soon as I got to the lodging house, I locked myself up in my room and bawled until I had exhausted my supply of tears.  
  
It was then that Runner's words came to me. "All ya hold dear now...your reputation, girls, and fame...one day, it won't mean anything to you. One day, you're going to come to realize that there are far better things to live for." And that's when it finally dawned on me. Yes, Runner's death was brought upon him by someone consumed with hatred, but my cousin had chosen to make a stand rather than cringe away as I had many times done. He knew he could have been dealt life with a mere renunciation, but he would rather die than betray his beliefs, for he knew in his heart that he would be rewarded in the end. There are far better things to live for...and to die for obviously.  
  
No one missed that Staten Island bastard when I took his life weeks later. I felt bad in a certain manner because killing him didn't bring back Runner as I had convinced myself it would, and more importantly I knew vengeance didn't belong to me. But my cynical life needed some assurance, and that was the only thing from which I could derive pleasure in my state of mourning.  
  
In time...I would mature as a person and see things in a new perspective. Runner's death was a sharp pain, like a thorn ever lodged in my heart. But I knew he would want me to grow from the experience. As he had said shortly before his life was taken away, "God is everywhere, and he's going to make something of this. Whether it touches one person, or a population, it's going to be life- changing."  
  
How he was right. God did make something out of it. Runner's passing had touched someone. It had touched me...and if it weren't for him, I wouldn't be looking forward to that 'promised land' today.  
  
One day...I'll see him again.  
  
~*~*~*~*~ 


End file.
